Archive of Our Own

Trish spotted him before he spotted her, hissing in air through her teeth and expelling it in a short, sharp “Shit!” under her breath when she realised he wasn’t alone. The curse startled her own plus-one, who choked on her whiskey for a moment before turning to look at her as if she’d just beaten an elderly woman to death in the middle of this smokey, velvet-soaked lounge.

“Jesus, Trish, you okay?”

“Yes,” she responded automatically, eyes still fixed on the man in the dark red suit who, mercifully, had not spotted her yet. She caught herself, turning away to down half of her own drink. “No. Damn. Why did it have to be here?” Public gatherings were usually safe; even on his good days he hated crowds. A hatred Trish could relate to, despite herself, but one she prided herself on managing with a little more grace and dignity.

“Trish? What is it?”

She felt a tentative hand on her arm and closed her eyes, counted to ten, then made her face do one of those quiet little I’m-okay smiles she learned from her mother before she looked up at her date.

“Nothing- No, Ermes, really, it’s something stupid,” she added, when she could tell her denial had not been one of her best. “Someone I didn’t want to see just arrived. No, don’t look.” She guided Ermes’ face back towards herself with a gentle hand. “Charity events always bring out the worst of the worst, I swear.”

Ermes nodded, a frown still marring her face. It was a familiar one; Trish had seen it often before, when she would discuss some difficulty with her own family. She found herself hoping fervently that he hadn’t seen that face.

“You’re not wrong. Three different guys asked me for refills on their drinks already.” She shrugged her shoulders, the dress Trish had had tailored for her moving fluidly with the motion. “You wanna get the hell out of here?”

“Very much. Would you mind calling a taxi?”

“There’s a bunch outside. I saw ‘em when I was trying to find the toilets.”

Trish shook her head. “And all of them know exactly what kind of event this is and how deep the average pocket in this room is. They’ll charge twenty times as much.”

Ermes gave her a look of mock horror. “Since when are you cheap? You spent more than my rent just on these heels.” She gestured down to the shoes in question, an angular leather pair that Trish had thought looked suitably practical and modest until Ermes had tried to move at more than a light stumble in them.

She smiled again, letting her hand rest on her arm. “That was a luxury purchase for a dear acquaintance. Overpaying for a cab is just being a sucker.”

“Well, if you don’t wanna overpay, I could always walk you home.” Ermes laid her hand over hers, squeezing gently with a wicked grin beginning to tug at her lips. “I’ll have to take off the shoes, though, or we’ll be walking all night.”

“That might not be so bad.” Her own smile softened into something more genuine, then stalled completely. “But maybe another time; I’m a little tired. I’m getting too old for these things.”

“You ain’t old, shut up.” Ermes scoffed, “You can keep up with me just fine.”

“Maybe another night. Do you have your phone?”

“I- Yeah,” Ermes stuttered, oblivious to the looming shadow that had finally spotted them, making its way across the floor. “But if you-”

“I’ll meet you outside. I won’t be long.” Trish pushed herself away with what she hoped was a tactful finality, turning away.

“Are you-”

“You said the bathroom was two halls down on the left, right?” Trish asked, voice louder and a touch more frantic than she had intended, footsteps slightly too hurried to blend in. Ermes stammered an assent behind her, but Trish was already weaving around groups of tipsy philanthropists and their various hangers-on and parasites. Don’t let him have seen her. Don’t let him have seen her with Trish. She didn’t think she could stand to watch him putting two and two together.

Right up until the last moment the thought of just running away lingered in her mind. Go back, apologise to Ermes, find a cab that would take them both away now at any price. Go somewhere bright and indulgent and swarming with people for a few hours before talking her into coming back to the flat Trish kept by the river. Feel young again the normal way, ignore him and forget about him, as much as she ever did. That would be the sensible thing to do. Trish kept telling herself that as she moved through the crowds like an explorer through the jungle undergrowth, right up until she finally squeezed her way past a pair of chuckling industrialists and found herself staring up into her father’s face.

“Ah, Trish,” he said, as if picking up a conversation they had been indulging in all night. “I had hoped you would be here.”

She could see at once that it was bad. She could have guessed as much from him being here at all, but up close it was impossible to ignore how drawn and tired he looked. He was holding himself a little awkwardly but not well enough to hide his figure, despite the obvious artistry of a tailor she suspected was even better-paid than her own. She would not be surprised if he had lost a dozen kilograms since they’d last met, and his heavy lids couldn’t conceal the anaemic tinge to his eyes. The cologne was the gaudy, overpowering kind he only wore when he was waning. In spite of herself and hating herself for it, Trish felt a pang of worry and sympathy for him.

Then she glanced down to his left and any sympathy evaporated.

“My god,” she said, voice as withering as she could make it, “I didn’t think it was legal to have one that young.”

“Um,” said the reason why Trish could not simply run away. This time it was a man barely taller than Trish in her heels and with an expression of general anxiety that looked very at home on his face. That face coloured a few shades darker as she stared, clashing horribly with her father’s suit even as he leaned closer to it, as if he was fighting the urge to cower from her. Something about him was familiar in a way she didn’t like, itching at her long-term memories even though he had to be at least half her age.

She kept her gaze fixed on him, taking in every detail, but she could feel her father smiling at her. He always enjoyed other people appreciating his things.

“Doppio is a little older than he looks, I assure you.”

“That’s good.” She could see that, now, noting the little nicks and stains of age around his wide, worried forehead and his eyes, the skin worn slightly by the sun under all those freckles. “You’ll have something in common.” She met those eyes, dull and anxious, the eyes of a prey animal. Her father had a type. Trish lowered her voice to an affected subterfuge, inclining her head towards him. “My father is much older than he looks.”

“Your…” She had not thought that those eyes could go any wider, and when he turned them up to look entreatingly at his handler she felt sick.

“So, who is your new, not-so-young friend?” she asked, bracing herself.

“Doppio, this is Trish Una. My daughter.” That little clipped period between the two halves of her introduction, the slight emphasis on the syllables around the blood relation. How many times had she heard him say those words? She watched him wave a hand towards his companion as if presenting a particularly rare treasure at an auction. “Trish, this is Vinegar Doppio.” No qualifier on that name; none needed. She met his eyes in icy silence, looking, as she always did, for some thin hint of remorse.

“Uh, hi.” The stutter made her break contact, forcing her face into that pleasant, benign expression before she turned it on him. He still looked nervous and she reminded herself that she could not afford to make him nervous. She flattered herself that she had inherited a little more charm and charisma.

“Hello, Doppio.” She held out her hand, pretending not to notice how weak his grip was when he shook it. “I take it he hasn’t told you a thing about me? Don’t take it personally. It’s difficult for my father to remember all of us little people.”

“No. I mean, I didn’t know, but-”

“Trish is more than capable of speaking for herself,” her father interjected, a tinge of pride in his voice that she loathed almost more than her own stinging sympathy. His fingers settled on Doppio’s shoulder like the legs of a large white spider and she willed him to flinch, to shrug them off. To do anything but what he did, which was visibly relax under the touch, glance up at him and smile as he spoke. “She’s a very capable woman. I’d been wondering whether to take you to see one of her projects in April, but… Ah, the time passes so fast.”

Far too much time had already passed. Months, at least, from how frail her father looked. Trish remembered she was still holding her drink and brought it to her lips to make sure her worried frown didn’t leak out. The liquid was hot, something mixed with chilli oil. Ermes had chosen it at the bar; she thought spicy things suited her.

“I gather that project did quite well, critically? I hope you were adequately compensated.”

“Well enough. Honest work doesn’t pay too bad. You should try it some time, Daddy.”

“My work is very honest. It is people who are not.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “But I am glad to see you looking well.”

“Thank you. You look terrible.” She regretted that comment milliseconds after making it, cursing herself as she watched fear flash across his face more than insult. Fear made him rush, fear gave her less time. “But you always did have awful taste in suits,” she fumbled, forcing her face not to wince.

She was surprised when Doppio spoke into the silence between them, blurting out, “Are you, um…” before his face darkened a little more as it realised what his mouth was about to say, “Trish Una, as in, uh-”

“As in me.” She waved a hand graciously. “Don’t feel bad about not recognising me. I’m usually behind the camera these days. Forty is the new eighty in the industry.”

“Oh. Sorry, that kinda sucks.” Trish tried to hold the smile at that little olive branch of sympathy. Tried not to notice that he was wearing a suit that was not quite a perfect match for her father’s, but could have been a close sibling. “I mean, I thought you were great in Dreams of Cinderella.”

“You and everyone but the Academy.” She shrugged. “Well, better to go out on a cult hit than a total flop. And the work I do now isn’t too dull.” She smiled a little more genuine, thinking of Ermes practising her stunt work with a distracted fluster, trying to give Trish a perfect take of her crashing through a window as if it were a bouquet of flowers or box of chocolates. “Getting to direct today’s heroines beats playing their ageing mothers.”

“Time is very cruel,” her father mused. “You know, Trish, that you are always welcome to discuss the alternatives.”

She looked up at him and keeping the smile in place became a monumental effort. Not because he was mocking her, but because he wasn’t. Because she knew that look on his face, that sort of vague familial concern that didn’t know how it had found itself there but was no less genuine for being in such unfamiliar territory. One word, one phone call, that was all it would take.

She couldn’t bear it. Trish made her eyes slide off him as if she had not heard, turned her focus back to the shorter man standing so close to him that he might as well already be an appendage. “And you? What do you do?”

“Oh, I’m, uh… I do admin stuff, mostly. Or sometimes I go out to collect a few things or organise some of the things we… Well. I work for, you know.” Doppio gestured towards her father, eyes falling in a guilty expression that would have had any law enforcement official salivating.

“One of my organisations,” her father generously finished, shifting slightly on his feet. “And his work is of the very highest calibre.”

Doppio elevated himself slightly in Trish’s estimation by making the kind of noncommittal noise a person makes when they are too polite to argue against a statement but not dishonest enough to agree with it.

“I’m sure it is. He’s always liked hard workers.” She waited until Doppio’s eyes met hers before adding: “I’ve met quite a few of them over the years. If nothing else, I can’t accuse him of bad taste in people.” Although the more she looked at this one the sadder a specimen he appeared. Slumping shoulders and a faint air of frailty, and her father might have had a weakness for vulnerability but frailty he could ill afford in his targets. Was it that late that he’d become desperate? But then why endure the horrors of leaving whatever palace he’d holed himself up in just to show him off to her? To show her this nervous little man who kept moving his hands, fingers twitching with nervous energy, while that other, paler hand stayed heavy on his shoulder. It was beginning to annoy her that she couldn’t place that sense that she’d met him before.

“You see, Doppio? My daughter knows how high my standards are.” The fingers inched a little higher, the furthest one dipping under the shirt collar. “If you won’t believe me when I tell you that you have excelled at them, dear, you can trust her word.”

“Hah… Well. Okay. Thanks, Miss Una.” Doppio’s mumbling laugh earned him one of her father’s own razorwire grins. “I just… I try my best, Boss.”

“Of course you do.”

“He does like to lay it on a little thick, though,” Trish muttered before taking another sip, letting the glass not quite mask the roll of her eyes. It was another very bad sign that he was acting like a child, the moonstruck teenager only just belied by the awful pallor of his skin. It was bad signs all the way down. He wouldn’t be out in public like this, letting anyone with two fortunes to rub together see that haggard face, unless he knew that soon it would not matter.

Unless he knew that there was nothing she could do about it.

“You should take him to visit Mamma.”

The spite bubbled up before she could stop it, but it had an immediate effect that she couldn’t find it in herself to feel sorry for. Her father’s face froze, hand slipping away from his prey to fix a non-existent problem with his cufflinks. Doppio, expression falling like a wilting flower, glanced up at him as if he’d fainted away.

“Hey, Boss…? You okay? Do you need to sit down?”

“No. I am quite… quite alright.”

“Good! Then you should go see her. She still loves entertaining. It wouldn’t be as lavish as this-” Trish did a little turn, arms encompassing the opulent surroundings “-but you must miss her parties. A lot more energy and much better music.” She reached out to nudge his arm, smiling her most dutiful daughter smile. “Do you remember when we used to hide up in my bedroom together when the dancing started? She’d love to meet your new friend. He’d remind her so much of-”

And that’s where she cut herself off, because it had just been a petty jibe but when she really looked at Doppio she realised that was exactly it. There was someone that confused, slightly hurt face had been reminding her of, far back in the mists of memory.

“I don’t think that would be… appropriate,” her father said, somewhere up above her, “not while she is so-”

“It could be just like old times.” She reached out to tap Doppio’s arm with her other hand and her father made no move to stop her, which felt like a little victory. “They weren’t married, obviously, but we all lived together on that big beachfront- Oh, but you won’t have seen it. He never keeps the old houses.” She shifted her weight so that she was a little closer to him, not quite putting herself between them but near enough that she could, if she were quick and a little rough. “Don’t tell her I told you, Doppio, but my Mamma is a little bit of a hoarder. You know, thinks all the old fashions are about to come back any day now, hates throwing anything away.” She finished her drink, the last gulp more spice than warmth. “Daddy doesn’t have that problem. He’s much more efficient.” Doppio was looking at her with that dull, clueless rabbit-in-the-headlights look again, so she made sure to smile her best predator smile. The one she didn’t get from her mother. “Daddy throws everything away, in the end.”

To her astonishment, something of the rabbit slipped. “Well… maybe some stuff’s not worth keeping around, you know?”

“Hm?” She must have actually recoiled slightly, because Doppio inched towards her as if pressing an advantage.

“Everyone needs a fresh start sometimes, right, Miss Una? Everyone…”

The bolster lasted exactly as long as it took for Doppio to glance aside and notice that a small group of partygoers with more money on each finger than most people made in a year were not-so-surreptitiously watching, murmuring to each other. The white hand reappeared on his shoulder and Trish jumped to feel another on her own, a clumsier grip with something hard clutched in the cool fingers. Her father guided both of them to a small, partially enclosed set of couches in one of the quieter corners with the speed and grace of a man used to the manoeuvre. He sat each of them down on opposite sides of the same impractically-delicate coffee table, like misbehaving children, before lowering himself beside Doppio with a grunt. The thing in his hand revealed itself to be a cane she hadn’t noticed before.

Because he hadn’t wanted her to notice, she realised with another unwanted pang of worry. He was good at hiding things like that, when it started to get bad. Her mother had always hated it.

As if he had peered into her mind he sighed. “Do I need to visit Donatella, Trish?”

Her mouth was dry. “No,” she managed to croak out. “Not yet.”

He nodded. “Good. In that case… I believe that at this stage the question of introductions,” he glanced back towards Doppio, reaching up to fidget with a lock of his hair as if utterly immune to the way that it made the poor man go completely rigid, “is a little academic, don’t you think? She’ll meet him eventually. Very soon.”

Trish noticed that her knuckles were white around the empty glass and made them be soft and gentle, bringing it to rest on the table. “Maybe.”

His eyes followed her hands. “Doppio, could you fetch Trish another drink? One for yourself, as well, please.”

In spite of her waning energy she raised an eyebrow. “You let them drink, now? I thought you liked them in peak condition.”

A shrug with too much tightness in it to carry itself. “Once or twice does no harm. Habit is where indulgence becomes weakness.”

That was absurd enough from him of all people that Trish snorted, leaning back on the faux leather with a smirk as Doppio stumbled back to his feet.

And stopped almost as soon as he was on them. “Um, Boss?” He pointed into the crowd, somewhere behind her and over her head. “Isn’t that, uh…”

Her father’s tired eyes followed his finger and became noticeably more tired. “Dear god. Who let him into the building? He’s supposed to be testing the samples. And what has he done to that hideous pet of his this time?”

Doppio shook his head, his eyes for once not glued to her father, though his face had gone almost pale enough to match his. “I think he’s, um, trying to get your attention.”

“He’s got it, the wretched creature.” Her father stood, cane coming down like a gavel. “If he’s transplanted my samples into that thing I’ll have him up before every medical board that hasn’t already- Cioccolata!” The name was a hiss that carried, like a chill draft.

“Ah, Boss!” A cheerful voice trilled out from further back in the room. “I was hoping to have a little word about-”

“Keep your voice down,” her father spat, at a noticeably higher volume. He stalked around Trish, cane gouging into the carpet as he passed.

“B-Boss, should I-”

“Stay. This will be brief.”

Trish sighed as he passed by her, closing her eyes, and when she opened them again Doppio was still standing there, chewing his lip.

“Sit down. He won’t be long. He hates socialising. You’ve probably noticed.”

“...yeah. He’s kinda… shy, huh?” Doppio sank back down into the seat opposite.

“I don’t know if that’s the word I’d choose, but he’s not much of a conversationalist. More of a monologuer.”

“Heh.” Doppio did smile a little indulgently at that. “He does get… carried away sometimes, doesn’t he? Cioccolata’s not much better. I’m kinda glad he didn’t want me to deal with him. I don’t really wanna hear them talk about… whatever they’re gonna talk about.”

They both knew exactly what that was, and the way his face dropped at even the vague acknowledgement made a cruel little hope jump in Trish’s chest. “I don’t blame you. I don’t think anyone would want to listen to that.”

Doppio shrugged. “I know it’s dumb. It’s gonna happen anyway, but… since it’s gonna happen anyway, I don’t really wanna hear all the details, you know?”

Trish leaned forward, clasping her hands in her lap. “I know. They’re not very nice details, and if I remember rightly, that particular surgeon doesn’t make them sound any nicer. Daddy had him take my tonsils out when I was little and he spent more time talking to them than me. I almost felt bad for them.”

Doppio sniggered. “He’s probably still got them. He showed me his ‘collection’ once. He kept apologising ‘cause he keeps all his best ones in his… friend.”

She winced, shivering theatrically. “Well, my tonsils had better not be in that collection. I didn’t do all those glamour shots to be told any part of me is second-rate.” The snigger broke out into a genuine grin and Trish matched it, leaning further forward. She met his gaze, half-reaching out to touch his hand across the table before pulling it back. Too much. Too much and too much like that spider on his shoulder. Instead she let the smile settle into something approachable, reliable, the kind of look she’d give an actor a few more terrible line reads away from a breakdown. “Doppio? I’m sorry if I was a little… rude, earlier. My father isn’t like my photographers. He doesn’t always bring out my best side.”

“I… Yeah.” Doppio graced her joke with a little half-chuckle. “It’s… I get it. I never liked talking to my family much, either.”

She nodded, filing that away. “Sorry, but do you mind if I’m rude just one more time? There’s something I’d like to ask you and there isn’t really a tactful way to put it.”

His own smile cooled, though not as much as she’d worried it might. “I guess?” He nodded. “Sure.”

“How much is he paying you?”

There was the chill, the sub-zero frostbite look she had been dreading. Doppio pulled away from the table without taking his eyes off her.

She had to push through it, chilblains or not. “Whatever it is, I’ll match it. And if I can’t, I’ll find someone who can. I have a few friends here and there who owe me favours.”

More cold, those dull eyes looking right through her.

“If there’s anything you need to pay off, or someone you need to get away from… I can get you away from them. If you need documents, I can get them. A new house, a new life, a whole new identity, if that’s what you want.” Sometimes that was what they wanted, the more tragic ones. “If you’re worried he’d come after you, don’t be. I can keep you safe, I mean that. You don’t need to be afraid of-”

“I’m not afraid of anything, Miss Una.”

Trish stared into those eyes, as empty of fear as anything else, and sat back, sighing. “I wish you were.” She picked at one of her false nails, letting her gaze fall to her hands. “How bad is he, really?”

“...pretty bad, I think.” She saw Doppio shift out of the corner of her eye and knew he was scanning the crowd, waiting to see him reemerge. “Worse than he lets on. He’s not eating a whole lot.”

“He always tries to hide it.” She picked up her glass again and sipped, even though it was only icewater now. “Right up until the end. I don’t think he likes you - you guys generally, I mean - seeing him like that.”

“He doesn’t like anyone seeing it. He’s… scared,” Doppio mumbled, settling back down opposite her. “He’s the one who’s scared, not me. Who wouldn’t be, right?”

Trish felt the edge of her mouth twist up in a sardonic grin. “He’s done this before. I don’t think it’s just the fear; it’s not like there aren’t risks for… people like him.” Her grin faltered under the weight of those risks for a moment before recovering. “He likes it, really. Reinventing himself. Tying everything up in a neat little bow and throwing it all away.”

“He’s not like that.” She felt the palpable bristle across from her and glanced up to humour Doppio’s defensive frown.

“I’ve known him a long time, Doppio. Most of my life.”

“So he didn’t throw you away, did he? He knew you were gonna be here, didn’t he? He had to. He hates ‘socialising,’ right? He came here for you. To see you. To show you.”

The ice was rattling against the glass. Trish forced her hand to be steady.

“He hasn’t brought me to anything like this before. I know he gets invites, ‘cause he put me in charge of a bunch of the email accounts.” The way she smirked at that put a touch of red back in his cheeks. “He doesn’t go to any of them, not until this one. And he always takes me to, to private booths and stuff. When we do… go out, you know.” The colour darkened as he stumbled his way around that admission.

“I’m sure he does. You’re probably right.” He was, she knew, sipping her water with the ghost of heat still lingering in it. Her father liked her to meet them, usually, and the last time he had attempted a home visit had not ended well for anyone. He bought them the suits and he fed them up or got them clean and smiled at them like a wolf and took them to meet his daughter.

“Has he told you that he loves you?”

Doppio shot her a glare that abated faster than she would have expected, then leaned back and sighed like someone much closer to her own age.

“You’re gonna say he says that to all of them.”

“He does.” Trish leaned forward, elbows on her thighs propping her up into a conspiratorial hunch. It was another habit she got from him. “I’ve seen… seven altogether, I think. And I know he was doing it before I was… Before he met my…”

Doppio folded his arms, curling in on himself. Trish took a breath, holding the cold glass in both hands.

“My father- My real father looked a bit like you. A kind of… babyface, and terrible posture.” That made him straighten up and she smiled. “That’s how he looks in the old photos, anyway. I don’t remember him much. My Mamma says he could always make her laugh, but I don’t remember them laughing very much. I was only six or so, when she- When they got in trouble.”

Doppio’s eyes glanced over her. “What kind of trouble?”

She thought about the house by the sea where her mother still lived, in spite of everything. “Expensive trouble. My father went looking for money and came home with… him.”

Doppio squirmed like his chair was trying to chew him, not looking at her at all. That was her one trump card, that they always wanted to know and knowing just made it worse.

“He was very nice to us, of course. Cleared up all the debts like it was nothing. Bought us a new place, much bigger than our little flat. I got to go to a better school with a fancy uniform. I used to run up and down the beach and he’d sit with my dad on the porch and watch me. I adored him, honestly.” That made his eyes fix back on her and she shrugged. “I was a kid. He bought me toys whenever he visited and helped me with my schoolwork. He made the arguing stop, or… The loud arguing, anyway. To me he looked like… some kind of cross between Santa and an angel. I think my dad felt kinda the same way.” She took another sip. “My Mamma hated his guts. Wouldn’t let him in the house for… months, I think. The first time she saw him talking to me I thought she was gonna kill him, and when dad was talking to him… God.” Trish shook her head. It was hard to reconcile the furious woman in those memories with the calm, poised, funny one she’d known most of the time since. But, she recalled with a little shiver, there was more than one reason why the faces didn’t quite match. With a jolt she realised that Doppio was still looking at her and plastered on a quick smile. “Don’t get the wrong idea about her, okay? She’s the most easygoing lady you’ll ever meet, but seeing him scared her. The way he looked at my dad scared her. The fact he was a woman back then probably didn’t help.”

Doppio’s face went through several trial runs of expression before she took pity on him and gave a dismissive wave, hoping that it covered her attempts at holding back a laugh. “Oh, he switches it up from time to time. That kinda thing is like putting on a different coat to him. It’s not that he’s… indiscriminate, don’t get the wrong idea. He has very precise criteria, but gender isn’t one of them.”

Doppio let her sit in her own realisation that she was defending her father’s tastes for a few seconds before muttering, “What are they? The… criteria.”

Trish looked up at him, his arms unfolded enough for his hands to knead each other in his lap. “You… You don’t wanna hear about that. I’m only telling you about it so you understand-”

“No. I wanna know.” He leaned towards her, hanging over the table in a mirror of her own posture. “‘Cause I’ve been trying to figure it out and I don’t know why he picked me, out of everyone who applied. I’ve been working really hard to help him but whatever he says, I know I’m not… special. I don’t even work out or anything, I’m not that strong or even that great at my job and if he picked wrong, and this all… doesn’t work out, then he’ll… He’ll be…” His hands wrung themselves like strangling weeds. “Please, Miss Una. If… If they’re all like me, then it makes sense. Then it could work, right? I’ll be… a match. He’ll be okay.” ”

His face went so pale every freckle stuck out like the night sky in negative, and she realised she never had a chance.

“...like I said, he’s done this before. A lot. He’s good at picking people out.” She tapped her fingernail on the glass. “Not just the, y’know, blood types or genetics or whatever. He’s good at choosing people with the right stuff… here.” She reached across, the tip of her nail almost reaching his forehead. “And I think… that’s where he’s found another winner. Another perfect match.” The words were too tired even to spit.

Doppio winced. “Does that… really matter? Just my-”

“Of course it matters.” Her finger was still trained between his eyes. “That’s where he’s going to live, after all. He has to have all the fixtures and fittings just right. Can’t have too many… rogue personality quirks clashing with his decor.” She snorted, leaning back in her chair again, stubborn but resigned. “Not that he’s not a little superstitious about it. He thinks the wrong kind of person throws his vibe off, or something.”

Doppio shivered. “Like, makes him sick?”

“Oh, that would be too logical.” She waved the glass airily. “If the personality is wrong then all his deals fall apart, his lackeys start acting out, his crops fail, his coin tosses all land on their edges, whatever. I remember a few weeks after I got my first major role he got into some kind of argument with the one he was grooming at the time.” She noticed the way Doppio winced at the term, but couldn’t make herself believe it was a discomfort she could capitalise on. “Apparently tried to burn down his house over it, so he must have said something pretty stupid. Not that I’ve never been tempted.” She shrugged. “Still went along with it, though. It was too late to do anything else. But that one lasted… just three years or so? Maybe a little more, but I swear he was shopping around from day one. Convinced they were turning on him from the inside, trying to kill him.” She paused, cocking her head. “Although he did look dreadful the entire time, to be fair. There was definitely something wrong with that one. Cioccolata must have mixed up one of the tests; his real perfect match is probably in little pieces in his collection right now.”

“Do you think his… Do you think they really were trying to hurt him? Fighting back or, or sabotaging it? Could a part still be there, even after…”

Trish put the glass down on the table with a sharp little click, and looked into those anxious, desperate eyes.

“He’s going to cut a hole in you and then he’s going to plant himself in it like a seed and spread and grow until there’s nothing left. And then he’ll do it again. Do you really understand that?”

Doppio let out a soft breath, nodding. “I think so.”

“Do you? Do you know what it’ll mean?” Trish found herself leaning forward again, towards him, as if she could drag him away. “Nothing. That’s what you’ll be, nothing at…” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “He’ll cut you right out of yourself. He’ll cut you out of your own life.”

“I get it. I know-”

“No, you don’t! You never do!” She noticed him flinch and heard the chatter around them die down somewhat and dug her nails into her arms, forcing herself to grow up.

“Don’t you care?” She glanced at him to see him shaking his head, voice low, disgusted. “Even if he’s not your real father… he looked after you, didn’t he? And he’s gotta care about you now, or he wouldn’t be here. Don’t you care at all that he’s dying? Do you want him to die?”

“No.” Trish let her eyes drop, shoulders slumping. “Of course I don’t, but that doesn’t make it…” She stopped, made herself sit up straighter. “Let me tell you something. When I told you about my ‘real’ father I had to keep reminding myself… Reminding myself that he was my father, that man in those old photographs. Because when I really think about it, when I picture my father in my head… I see him. Playing with me on the beach, helping with my homework, booking private screenings of my films, it’s all him. All his different faces. That’s my father, that’s the one I remember and know and love, and the man who had that face first… that’s just a ghost. He’s nothing, now. Do you see? It won’t be your life anymore.” She blinked hard and looked up and met Doppio smiling at her.

“What makes you think I have a life to lose, Miss Una?” It was a smile that didn’t suit him, cold and quietly cruel. “There’s nobody who’s gonna miss me, nothing I need to… Nobody who’s ever gonna need me as much as the Boss does. I haven’t… there’s nothing he can take from me, ‘cause I haven’t got anything to start with.”

“You’re wrong. You’re very, very wrong.”

Doppio shrugged, still glowing with that painful grin. “Then I hope he takes all of it. He can have it. If he can make it into something… something like him,” his eyes searched the crowd behind her, burning, “then I want him to have it. He can do whatever he wants with me. Sorry, Miss Una, but you’re wrong. Someone is gonna remember me. He’ll remember that I was… What I did for him, every time he looks in a mirror. He’ll know that… I’m the one who saved him. That he needed me. So all the rest, the nice stuff he says to me… If it’s fake stuff he says to everyone, I don’t really care. ‘Cause that’s… that’s gonna be real.” His voice stuttered on the words, just a little. Just enough that she could feel the uncertainty there and wonder if there was a crack in that armour, a place to slide the knife in and twist.

Maybe the problem was that she wasn’t enough like her father. “It’s not fake. I don’t think it is.” She saw the cautious distrust in Doppio’s eyes and sighed, holding her hands up, resigned. “He tells them all that he loves them, every time, but I think he means it every time. He’s not selfish enough that he can’t appreciate it for what it is and be… flattered, I guess. He knows you’re giving up everything for him and he’ll love you for every minute of it.” She closed her eyes so she didn’t have to look at him relaxing into her words, the relief on every feature.

“I’ll… I promise I’ll take care of him. I will. If… If it works, I-”

“It’ll work. You’ll ‘save’ him. For however long… Ten years is a pretty good run for him, if it’s a good match. And then one day he’ll tell someone else he loves them with your voice.”

The silence stretched on longer than she expected, and when she opened her eyes he was looking away from her, at his hands in his lap with another of those chinked-armour looks.

“Do you think… If it’s good enough… Like, really good enough, maybe he won’t need someone-”

“Ah, Trish, you’re still here.”

She jumped, turning in her seat to catch her father as he slipped around her and sank down next to Doppio with a beleaguered sigh, resting his head on his shoulder.

“Was I supposed to go anywhere?”

“Cioccolata had a number of ideas for cosmetic ‘upgrades’ that he’s been practising on his favourite patient and you know how disgustingly enthusiastic he can be.” He settled himself a little more against Doppio’s side. Doppio, for his part, was staring straight ahead and appeared to be trying, unsuccessfully, to contain his flush through willpower alone. “I had begun to worry that you might take advantage of my absence to elope with my companion. Again.”

“That was only once, Daddy. And ‘elope’ is a strong word. I just thought a little weekend away might clear his head a bit.”

“You muddied his head rather thoroughly, in my opinion. Poor Bucciarati was very distressed over the entire affair. He said very unkind things to me when I had him returned.”

“Strange,” Trish said, with another shrug, “he was a perfect gentleman to me.”

“Still, it made no difference to the final result-”

“Hey, Trish, are these creeps bothering you?”

This time Trish whipped around, standing and almost tripping over her seat to intercept the person approaching her chair. Ermes was glaring down at the pair with naked hostility that on any other evening she would have found flattering. Tonight it might as well have been a kitten glaring at a woodchipper.

“No, no, I was just…” Trish’s hands hovered over her shoulders, their owner staring into Ermes’ collarbones. She heard Doppio make a small, apologetic squeak of a sound, soothed by a hush in a deeper voice.

“Ah, then you must be…” A soft chuckle that made her want to lunge back and throttle him. “Well, I would hate to keep you from your own company, and besides, that horrible man has drained my patience for the evening. Doppio, help me up, please.”

She turned, gripping Ermes’ arm, and watched her father stand, leaning on his victim, cane dangling in his other hand. He smiled at her and she tried to make herself believe there was no triumph in it.

“We must meet again soon, Trish. But not for… a few more months at least, I think. I will be very busy.”

A dozen loud, rude, pointless things tried to crawl their way out of Trish’s mouth. She swallowed them all and nodded. “Yes, of course. It was lovely to catch up.” She glanced down, biting back more things that would not help. “And it was… very nice to meet you, Doppio. I hope that I’ll… see you again. Soon.”

If Doppio noticed the escaped barb he made no sign of it. “Yeah, it was… It was nice meeting you, Miss Una.”

He shook her hand and she managed to give her father a kiss on the cheek without thinking too hard about it, and then they were leaving, Doppio clinging tightly to him as he guided him out of the room and away from everyone else.

“Trish, you’re kinda cutting off my circulation here.”

“Oh! Sorry.” She made sure that they were gone, then eased her grip on Ermes’ arm.

“Who the hell were they, anyway?”

Trish let out a long breath and tried to make herself believe she was letting her feelings out with it.

“My father.”

She went back home with Ermes. She convinced her to stay a few days, and a week later convinced her to stay a few more. She worked on her project and called her agent to renegotiate a few interviews she’d initially turned down. She attended meetings with anyone who needed her for anything and quite a few who didn’t. She went to another charity event, this one with photographers, so that she knew it would be safe. She threw herself into work as much as she could. That was what her father had always done, when he was trying not to look something in the face.

When she finally saw him again, almost nine months later, it wasn’t the same face.

“Do you actually enjoy these places, Trish?” He shook his head, stabbing a meatball with rather more vigour than was necessary. “This… peasant food?”

“At least peasants eat real food. Those new synthetic meats and vegetables are practically plastic. This is natural, it’s good for you.”

“An appeal to nature, of all things.” He rolled his eyes, shepherding spaghetti around the plate. “I thought I raised you better than that. ‘Natural’ is not synonymous with ‘good’ or, for that matter, ‘healthy’. A liver fluke is perfectly natural, and the drugs to remove one are wholly synthetic. Death is natural. No, Trish, I have no time for nature or its petty whims.”

Trish swallowed her ravioli and shook her head, not bothering to disguise her grin. “You know, all of that sounds utterly stupid coming from that mouth. It’s like being lectured by a teenager.”

Her father sighed, a smile of his own forming as he glanced down at himself for what must have been the hundredth time since they’d arrived. “He is adorable, isn’t he? I haven’t felt this alive in years.”

“You always say that.”

“No, this one is different.” She watched him stretch and curl the fingers of his hand as if testing a new toy, reaching up to run the other through his hair. “It’s not merely the flesh and bones, my mind feels… clearer. Sharper. I want to expand the organisation again, travel somewhere… Somewhere new.” He grinned, twirling his fork and cursing when it slipped through his fingers to the table. “There are so many things I had been putting off and for the life of me I can’t recall why. I had landscapers working on the new property but I’ve dismissed them; I’ll do it myself.”

Trish raised an eyebrow at that. “Really? You hate dirt and mud and… well, hard work.”

“Menial work is beneath me. But Doppio requested a garden, and he shall have it.” He fumbled the fork back into his hand, pausing to run a thumb along the freckles dotting the back of it. “What a gift he is. To think, I almost dismissed his application out of hand at first. How easily the most wonderful things can slip through your grasp, if you allow them- Damn!”

“Cutlery, for one,” Trish said, watching him duck under the table to retrieve the fork. “Are you sure you’re well enough for all this? Your hands are shaking and you look like you haven’t slept in a month.”

“Cioccolata says my nervous system is still undergoing alignment.”

She frowned. “Still?”

“It’s nothing but an excuse to get me back onto his table. I won’t tolerate him putting this body under his knife more times than is absolutely necessary. I can’t stand wasting away in bed, squandering everything Doppio has given me.” He noticed her expression and smiled. “I am perfectly well, Trish. The motor nerves can be a little stubborn sometimes, but they will adapt to me as well as the rest of him has.”

Trish nodded, chewing slowly. “I suppose you were quite a bit taller before. That probably takes some adjustment.”

Her father nodded and she tried to hone herself in on that. Her father, this was her father, he didn’t look like him, but he was, and eventually her heart and her mind would catch up to each other on that. They always did. And she would be talking to her father and not the grinning corpse of someone she’d barely known.

“But, as we are speaking about medical tribulations…” He leaned back in his seat. “Tell me about Donatella.”

Trish went cold, pushing her plate away. “She’s… It’s happening again. She thought it was just a nasty chest infection, but… Well, she says that’s what she thought it was.”

Her father nodded slowly. “Has she increased the dosage on her immunosuppressants?”

“Of course, but it’s just slowing it down. Not stopping it.”

“They never do.”

Trish took a deep breath. “Can you or… your people find her a donor?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do we need to? I thought Ms Costello was a confirmed match?”

Trish held herself very still, not breaking eye contact.

“No. She’s not.”

“The swab you sent had all the right initial hallmarks, if I recall, but… I don’t remember Cioccolata mentioning any follow-up testing, and he’s usually so… enthused about breaking doctor-patient confidentiality.” He leaned forward, the infuriating smile replaced with even more infuriating concern. “Did she refuse? Read her background check, she and her family could benefit greatly from the financial security, not to mention the more literal security-”

“I’m not-” Trish folded her arms and immediately regretted it, picturing herself a stubborn toddler. “She didn’t refuse. I didn’t ask. And a brain stem sample is a little harder to surreptitiously obtain than a cheek swab, so that’s that. She’s not a match.” She looked down, teeth worrying the inside of her own cheek. “So can you guys find someone else, or what?”

Her father leaned back again in his stolen body, muttering her name in an exasperated tone. “Trish, Trish… I understand the attachment, I do, but… one day you will see that you are denying them the chance to be something greater. The chance to do something truly beautiful and selfless, for someone who deserves it. Needs it. And Donatella, whatever else she may say-” He paused and she looked up to see him studying her with those new eyes and too-young features. “Or, perhaps… There is a genetic component, after all. Are you saving her for yourself?”

Her peasant food attempted to leave her the way it had come in, but her father must have read her nausea as something else, because he reached out to touch her, warm, shaky fingers on her shoulder. “Ah, Trish… It would be good for you. A fresh start, none of this… capitulating to the indignities of time. You have no idea how it pains me to watch it ravage you a little more each year, my own daughter… It’s cruel, Trish, but it does not need to be inevitable-”

“Can you find someone or not?”

He paused again, fingers still resting on her arm. “Of course. It may not be an ideal match at this notice, but-”

“That’s fine. Just send… Send us the details. And tell Cioccolata to visit when you have someone ready.”

He removed his hand, closing his eyes. “Very well. In fact, he’s summoned me for another damned check-up this afternoon.” He stood, retrieving his briefcase. “I’ll broach it then, if he allows me a word edgeways between babbling about my neuropeptides.”

“You’re leaving? No,” she said when he glanced down, waving her hand, “that’s fine. I’ll… I’ll let her know to expect a call.”

“Good. And… Think about your own… options, and what good you could do for Ms Costello, for that matter. It’s… intimidating the first time, I know, but if there is anything you would like to ask, you need only leave a message with one of my staff and I will-”

“I won’t,” she said, trying to make it sound firmer than the quiver in her voice would allow. “But thank you.”

“Well… Think on it, in any case.” He shrugged his jacket on, turning away from their booth. “See you around, Miss Una.”

“Bye, Da- What was that?”

“Hm?” He glanced back at her, a little concern on his new, barely broken-in features. “I said… Think about my offer, Trish. And…” He trailed off, a blank, vulnerable sort of expression passing over his face before he shrugged it off with a wry grin. “Take care.”

She stared up into that new face, trying to make herself believe she knew who was looking back at her.

“Yeah. Um, you too.”

Trish watched him nod, a confused little smile on his face, and then he straightened up his jacket a few times, as if the fit wasn’t quite right, and left.